My name is Ignorant, Average, Immature; Disgusting.
Titles pounded into the breast plate I wear to protect myself from the love and
that slithers into life then explodes itself out.
It was supposed to decrease the likelihood of third degree burns in my exposed chest cavity.
Like most other cheap-ass infomercial crap, it’s faulty.
Doesn’t always detect the sleeper cells eagerly waiting for the precise moment to pull the slip shredding you to pieces with their verbal claws and fists.
Sitting here now, I mourn the loss of my attacker.
Clinging to the armor that should have kept me safe, and the intruders out
instead, it’s a label, a name tag I can’t peel off.
My chest is on display, hiding from the stares, and the onlookers takes too much energy.
The attempt at movement pulls on my scabs and scars; splitting them down the middle with an agonizing tear the increasing the odds of infection.
These burns, cuts, infections, and scars need attention.
I can’t make the request.
Ace bandages and masking tape can only hold for so long.
The ends of the knots I tied are fraying, the sight of a spark provokes fear.
Whispering in it’s quiet trembling voice, “Defeat. Failure. Fraud.”
Fear was right after all,
my heart is beating violently in plain view, and my bandages unraveling.
I simply cannot express the weakness I can see through these ribbed cages.
There’s that bottle, the one trapping me inside.
I should probably hit the top off, letting these memories fizzle out.
But even when they’re let out, the sticky residue contaminates the crevasses and cracks in my palms and on my fingers.
Everything I encounter is infected by the haunting image of your cold and expressionless face.
You wear that mask to hide away the real you. Cowering behind a poorly made secret identity,
you’re too scared to take it off.
Your reflection turns on the records of us dancing on rooftops, of us gently kicking ourselves around an Island so small there’s no way it could hold bones from deep down.
The funny thing is, I’m the one who barricaded the door.
Taking it down would be suicide, exposing my clean and serene retreat to the bruised earth,
the winds and yells would rush into my world, again.
sick of your shit. sick of your fucking shit. i’m fucking sick of your fucking shit.
That awkward moment you realize that you have eaten a bagel, burrito, corndog, and a tub of ice cream before noon.
Fat person sitting next to me. She wiggles her fat toes while brushing her hair.
I’m not alone. I’m not alone. I’m not alone. This has been a dream and I’m ready to forget every detail. Back to the land of normalcy please. Let me love and be loved, it’s been so long since someone has said they care about me.
I realize you don’t know who I’m talking about. All that you need to know is that one of my managers is a fucking cunt, fat whore bitch.